2’s COMPANY

Despite the opportunistic rebranding of tat as ‘vintage’, charity shops still occasionally unearth little gems that sneak under the eBay radar and are picked-up by grateful punters bereft of an ulterior motive; a couple of weeks ago, I stumbled upon an entry in the long-running and collectable ‘Observer’s Book of…’ series, a 1980 reprint of 1973’s ‘London’, complete with a suitably avuncular Yeoman Gaoler on the cover. These nifty little pocket book guides were published on a variety of subjects between 1937 and 1982, with a one-off revival as recent as 2003; this particular copy cost me a quid. It reminded me that, even now, it remains possible to locate such items for next-to-nothing, regardless of the change in approach that came via the negative impact of Mary Portas and her reality TV assault on the charity shop ethos around 15 years ago. When I first began to frequent high-street bargain-bins in the 80s, it seemed everything on sale was a giveaway because nobody really wanted anything in there (bar amateur antiquarians such as myself), and one fascinating fossil I found back then cost me 70p, an item that had originally retailed at 6/- when published in 1963. It was the BBC Handbook 1964, looking ahead to an especially eventful year as the Corporation prepared to launch its second television channel.

The early 60s had been tough for the BBC. Not only had the arrival of ITV in 1955 broken the Beeb’s 20-year monopoly of British television, but the populist manner of commercial TV’s instant connection with a viewing public eager for choice had seen a mass defection to the other side; there was also a blow dealt to the BBC’s three radio networks with the arrival of pirate radio, playing non-stop contemporary pop rather than serving listeners tantalising rations of it sandwiched between hours of archaic Light music aimed at middle-aged housewives. The BBC’s first response to this attack on its dominance was to shake-up its TV output by calling time on the 50s with adventurous new programmes like ‘Z Cars’, ‘Steptoe and Son’, ‘Doctor Who’ and ‘That Was The Week That Was’; its next move was to launch a second television service, albeit one that wasn’t intended to compete with the huge viewing figures of ITV. The aim of BBC2 was to offer a highbrow option compared to what was largely perceived as the downmarket ‘Americanisation’ of British television by the Beeb’s rivals. The 1964 BBC Handbook says, ‘BBC2 will be complimentary to BBC1 (as the existing service will come to be known) in the sense of providing an alternative and different programme for the viewer at any time when both services are on the air. Its scope will be as wide as BBC1 and will cover the whole range of what the public has come to expect from a comprehensive and national television service.’

One of the main difficulties the BBC faced with the advent of BBC2 was their intention for the second channel to transmit on the superior 625-line system as opposed to the standard 405-line system both BBC1 and ITV used (and the system the majority of the nation’s sets were produced to receive). 625-line TV was already fairly standard in Europe, but in the UK it meant transmitters would have to be altered to accommodate the UHF band that 625-lines were broadcast on, as opposed to the VHF band that handled 405-line TV. The BBC were looking to the future, primarily of colour television; but in 1964 625-line TV was an expensive luxury requiring the kind of investment on the viewers’ behalf that needed enticing programming, something that BBC2 didn’t appear to have as far as the average TV audience was concerned. The eccentric schedule for the station’s intended opening night on 20 April 1964 included a production of ‘Kiss Me Kate’ starring Howard Keel; 45 minutes of a fellow called Arkady Raikin – who was billed as ‘the Soviet Union’s leading comedian’ – accompanied by The Leningrad Miniature Theatre Company; there was a live fireworks display from Southend Pier; and there was also ‘The Alberts’ – a surreal comedy/musical ensemble who were associates of both Spike Milligan and Ivor Cutler and who were fresh from a West End show titled ‘An Evening of British Rubbish’.

An additional hurdle hampering the launch of BBC2 was the fact its initial transmissions were restricted to the Crystal Palace transmitter in South London. As the 1964 Handbook admits, ‘It will be some years before complete national coverage of BBC2 can be achieved, but it will be extended from London and the South-East to the Midlands in 1965 and it is hoped to cover some 75 percent of the country’s population by 1966/67.’ A map in that week’s issue of the Radio Times shows the signal from Crystal Palace radiating as far north as Saffron Walden in Essex, but no further. So, not a lot there that promised to challenge the BBC’s reputation as an elitist, middle-class service catering for the Home Counties; I doubt ITV’s franchise holders felt threatened by its arrival. Then, come the opening night, the final disaster struck. About half-an-hour before BBC2 was scheduled to begin broadcasting at 7.20pm, there was a huge power failure caused by a fire at Battersea Power Station; most of West London experienced a blackout, including the Underground Central Line and – more importantly from the BBC’s perspective – Television Centre in Shepherd’s Bush.

At the time of the blackout, BBC1 had already switched to its regional centres for local news programmes, so the senior service continued to be received by viewers outside of London; once everyone realised what was happening, network broadcasting then switched to Alexandra Palace, the site of the BBC’s TV beginnings 30 years before. Periodical bulletins were issued on BBC2 from Alexandra Palace as the few who could receive it waited for programmes to begin, but the decision was eventually taken to postpone the launch till the following day. Rumours swiftly circulated this had been a dirty trick by ITV, a revenge attack for the BBC stealing the headlines on ITV’s launch night in 1955, when the dramatic death of Grace Archer shocked the-then far larger radio audience; but nothing was ever proved. With the intended opening a write-off, a new children’s series aimed at the pre-school viewer, ‘Play School’, therefore became the first-ever BBC2 programme by default when it went ahead at 11.00am on 21 April 1964. When the service belatedly began proper at 7.20 that evening with ‘Line-Up’, the first image viewers saw was a candle that was then blown out by presenter Denis Tuohy before uttering the immortal words, ‘Good evening. This is BBC2.’

The new channel’s commitment to innovative programming was soon reflected in two contrasting successes – the heavyweight documentary series, ‘The Great War’ (which benefitted from the fact there were still plenty veterans of the conflict alive in the mid-60s) and ‘The Likely Lads’, a sitcom that put the vogue for The North on the small-screen in a comedic context for the first time. But it wasn’t until David Attenborough accepted the offer to step back from the camera and become BBC2 controller in 1965 that the landmark programmes for which the channel’s eclectic early years remain defined by were produced. Amongst those that appeared on Attenborough’s watch were ‘The Forsyte Saga’, ‘Civilisation’, ‘Alistair Cooke’s America’, ‘The Ascent of Man’, ‘Man Alive’, ‘Call My Bluff’, ‘The Money Programme’, ‘The Old Grey Whistle Test’, ‘The Goodies’, and ‘Pot Black’. The latter series, as with BBC2’s Wimbledon coverage, couldn’t have happened without 1967’s shift into colour broadcasting, another innovation Attenborough oversaw.

BBC2 today, as with the television landscape as a whole, is a very different beast indeed; a cursory glance at the channel’s schedule on the day of its 60th birthday finds a trio of lunchtime cookery programmes, live snooker and women’s rugby, and a glut of repeats intended to mark the anniversary. Part of me wishes ‘the Soviet Union’s leading comedian’ was amongst them, but not so, alas. Happy birthday, then, BBC2; I knew you when you were worth watching.

© The Editor

Website: https://www.johnnymonroe.co.uk/

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IN THE DOCK

Talking Pictures TV, that dependable repository of cathode ray classics, has recently added another neglected gem to its nostalgic roster by giving a welcome repeat outing to one of the most unfairly-maligned British shows of the Golden Age, ‘Dixon of Dock Green’. Routinely – not to mention sneeringly – labelled ‘cosy’ (usually by those who’ve never seen it), the everyday stories of a London policeman originally ran for an impressive 21 years, which was no mean feat considering the lead character of Sgt Dixon (Jack Warner) was 81 when the series hung up its truncheon in 1976. This police procedural has a poor survival rate in the archives, but enough early episodes exist to keep the TPTV run so far strictly monochrome. And what the episodes from the 1950s and 60s undoubtedly convey is the look and feel of a soap opera – or ‘ongoing dramas’ as the BBC used to call them back then; some even contain a Light Programme-style arrangement of the theme tune that sounds like it belongs on ‘Music While You Work’. Unlike the later episodes from the 70s, these feature multiple scenes of Sgt Dixon at home and the family element is strong thanks to his daughter being married to DI Andy Crawford, with all three sharing the same residence. Ironically, soaps today feature an inordinate amount of criminal activity, largely thanks to the corrosive influence of Phil Redmond, though far more than can be seen in yer average episode of a literal crime series like ‘Dixon’. This is drama mercifully free of melodrama.

A decade ago, three DVDs were released that featured the surviving episodes from the last five years of the series, and these have a different feel to the ones TPTV has screened to date. There’s a poignant strain of melancholy running through the early 70s stories that is mirrored in the ageing, past-retirement and eternally avuncular figure of Sgt George Dixon. But Sgt Dixon is a man so indestructible that he cheated death at the hands of Dirk Bogarde (in the movie that inspired the series, 1949’s ‘The Blue Lamp’). Trailing Dixon pounding and plodding his beat along pavements straddling boarded-up properties is like watching a world pass away before our eyes – the post-war Ealing idea of England that trained Dixon to do his job hard but fair. And we trust him to uphold that principle as he criss-crosses a remarkable amount of waste-ground which wildflowers are already reclaiming as nature capitalises on the gap between the recent disappearance of one building and the distant erection of another. Dixon is oblivious of the goldmine his community is sitting on, but those that constitute the community will never benefit from the invisible gold once it comes to be mined; they, like Dixon himself, will be gone by then, edged out by prospectors.

The transition from monochrome to colour was largely on the surface when London was designated the cultural centre of the universe; the 60s never really swung in Dock Green aside from the odd visual flourish via the younger members of the community, and even then this flourish was a slow burner, not really showing itself until one decade had seamlessly morphed into another. Besides, the likes of George Dixon took it all in his seen-it-all-before stride; and it’s worth remembering this is a man who didn’t just emanate from a different decade, but a different century. He could recall every teenage tribe from Victorian hooligans through to cosh-boys in zoot-suits, never mind Teds, Mods and Rockers; it took more than yet another adolescent fad to faze him. Dixon is the physical embodiment of continuity with an era that is clinging on against the odds and under the radar; but everyone sensed it would all go when he did.

A man with the kind of gentle touch we were brought up to believe is a hallmark of British policing via the Ladybird manual, Sgt Dixon is the father figure overseeing a very human drama dealing with the little people who don’t stage audacious blags with sawn-off shooters. More often than not, he encounters life’s failures and does so with great humanity and sympathy. The streets of Dock Green can contain characters inhabiting the same rented accommodation, as in the wonderful 1976 episode, ‘Alice’ – including a burly northerner who once held ambitions to be a world-champion boxer, now reduced to wrestling every night to make ends meet; a small-fry businessman who talks the talk but is still stuck in a poxy little office; then there’s his West Indian secretary, over-qualified for her post, but presumably unable to get a better one because of her colour; and the socially diffident loner who gives the episode its title – a touching performance by Angela Pleasence as a girl with holes in her stockings, convinced she has what it takes to be a great violinist, though the viewer knows she’ll never make it.

Even in the bleaker 70s, Dock Green nick remains something of a comforting family firm – with the sergeant’s son-in-law DI Crawford overseeing a fluid squad of here today/gone tomorrow officers that the archive failed to preserve the complete careers of. But DI Crawford, like his father-in-law, is a static rock of stability in a landscape that is crumbling around him. Yes, he’ll get heavy with the bona-fide villains, but when confronted by innocents caught up in events born of their limited social circumstances, he recognises the signs and goes easy on them. The aforementioned apprentice violinist, name of Alice, is one such character. She possesses a damaged and delicate vulnerability, but the reasons behind why she’s the way she is remain unrevealed even as her sad story unfolds; gradually, however, we are exposed to a steely determination in Alice not to be walked over, something that is often the hallmark of the unlikely survivor and explains how they manage to cling onto the fringes of society, invisible and ignored, but ultimately defiant.

Dock Green is abundant with Alice’s, but the alienating elements of the big city are something the local Force is familiar with, and the causes of crime on the manor are often all-too evident. Even the genuine crooks are still recognisably Ealing-derived, most being the products of traditional criminal families stretching back generations, as much a part of the community’s fabric as Sgt Dixon himself (who has, in his time, nicked father, son and grandson). Innocent observers see the bad in them, but appreciate the nick will slap them on the wrist and send them to the Scrubs for a couple of years without fear of their criminal aspirations ever exceeding the low-level ambition their upbringing aims for. Their future heirs will not settle for that. No, when old coppers who can no longer handle their drink light their pipes and cluster round the Joanna for a run-through of archaic music-hall standards they know off by heart, you realise you’re watching one late, lamented incarnation of England in its elegiac death-throes.

The streets Dixon patrols are being eradicated and obliterated; where the Luftwaffe floundered, the town-planner has triumphed. A sense of place is as much about bricks & mortar as it is about people; when the bricks & mortar have been reduced to rubble, the people are reduced with them, and place is displaced for an entire generation – one which will never reclaim it. Hell, you think the crop that rule the roost as Dixon is on his last lap are bad – wait till you see their children and grandchildren when they get their chance. Schooled in the free-market casino that renders the little people Sgt Dixon has always striven to serve as collateral damage, morality will be a major casualty, as will any sense of shame as they fight to protect their self-interests at the expense of the rest. Their community is the community of Me. They will build towers that burn and evade prosecution at every turn because they can buy immunity, creaming their ill-gotten millions off each institution founded for the public and flogged to the private. They won’t give a flying f**k for the little people, and they won’t even have the decency to hide the fact or even feel the need to hide it. Is it any wonder the allure of the era before their abominable breed stained the surface of Albion retains its pull?

© The Editor

Website: https://www.johnnymonroe.co.uk/

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LONG WAVE GOODBYE

‘Evolution, not revolution’ – so spoke Tony Hayers of his mission at the BBC in his role as the nemesis of Alan Partridge when Hayers was BBC Commissioning Editor in the 1990s sitcom, to which a Partridge desperate for a second series of his TV chat-show reacted enthusiastically by declaring, ‘I evolve…but I don’t revolve’. The character of Tony Hayers (played by David Schneider) represented the post-Birt BBC executive class at odds with the populist approach of the Norwich-based broadcaster (played by Steve Coogan); in the real world, the BBC has been inherited by Tony Hayers rather than Alan Partridge, and we – as licence-fee payers – have seen (and heard) the end results of this evolution over the past 20-25 years. The increasing move towards digital platforms for receiving Auntie’s output may well suit anyone under 50, but for an ageing audience not tuning in to ‘RuPaul’s Drag Race’, the sudden transformation of BBC services to wholly accommodate a younger demographic whose viewing and listening habits have been entirely shaped by online activity has left loyalties severely tested for some. As of April Fool’s Day, Radio 4 will no longer have opt-out wavelengths for different programming, and – as usual – the hardcore audience accustomed to a traditional switch from FM to Long Wave and back again have had no say in this decision.

An opt-out slot is, in a way, a legacy of the old BBC Home Service, which would routinely pause for regional matters at various points during the day – not dissimilar to the manner in which the individual ITV franchise holders used to operate up until ITV’s transformation into a London-based, 24/7 networked entity around 20 years ago. The change from the Home Service to Radio 4 in 1967 didn’t eradicate this formula either; the content of Radio 4 could differ wherever you happened to be listening in the country till 1978, with the gradual spread of BBC local radio negating this aspect of the Home Service remit from the late 60s onwards. The South-west was the sole region immune to the 1978 overhaul, clinging onto the opt-out as late as January 1983, when the twin launches of Radio Devon and Radio Cornwall belatedly called time on a time-honoured practice. However, whilst regional opt-outs may have come to an end in the early 80s, wavelength opt-outs remained. Back in the now-unthinkable era when BBC Schools broadcasts dominated the daytime R4 schedules, a split between FM and Medium Wave (which the station then occupied) was necessary, but when Radio 4 swapped its MW band with Radio 2 in 1978, the old R2 Long Wave band became Radio 4’s opt-out option.

BBC radio has been transmitting on Long Wave for 99 years, beginning with its transmitter in Daventry, Northamptonshire, in 1925; there are still a trio of transmitters broadcasting Radio 4 LW on 198 kHz, though now owned by the private company Arqiva, which says significant investment is required to keep them going. However, with the Long Wave platform earmarked for eventual closure, it’s likely these transmitters won’t be maintained indefinitely. Since 1978 Long Wave has been a handy tool for niche programming where Radio 4 is concerned. The Shipping Forecast first aired on Radio 4 when the AM wavelengths were swapped between Radios 2 and 4, remaining in the same place on the dial as a result; the evergreen nautical recital is broadcast four times a day across FM and LW, though come April only the two daily FM broadcasts will still be heard, albeit with an additional edition at weekends. Other programmes that have benefitted from the two-way split include The Daily Service – and it’ll certainly be strange not hearing that mentioned at 9.45am just before Book of the Week – as well as Yesterday in Parliament’s extended version, both of which will henceforth only be found on Radio 4 Extra and BBC Sounds.

One already-notable absentee from Long Wave now is Test Match Special, a programme that has been shunted about a fair bit in recent decades. Launched in 1957, this Great British Institution took advantage of the empty afternoon airwaves occupied on an evening by the Third Programme and stayed in the same place – on Medium Wave – when the Third was rebranded as Radio 3; it remained on R3 up until the early 90s when the new MW-only station Radio 5 arrived as an intended home for all of the BBC’s radio sports coverage, and Test Match Special duly moved in; however, due to the somewhat…erm…lengthy duration of Test Cricket, the show also retained a presence on Radio 3 FM. It eventually found a fresh home on Radio 4 LW when Radio 5 was re-launched as the news-heavy Radio 5 Live in 1994, even if the Shipping Forecast, the Daily Service and Yesterday in Parliament – rather than rain – tended to routinely stop play. Despite extended coverage on the digital station Radio 5 Sports Extra avoiding these interruptions, LW broadcasts continued until the conclusion of the 2023 season.

I can completely understand listeners revelling in the crystal-clear haven that is a digital station, though I can’t deny the unique background sounds of mushy old Long Wave added a distinctive analogue accompaniment to the fine wine richness of the show’s legendary voices in the same way a vinyl crackle was integral to the ambience of a classic album from the 60s or 70s; it often used to sound as if TMS was being phoned-in from some distant village green in an imaginary Albion upon which the sun had yet to set. Perhaps that’s part of the nostalgic attachment to Long Wave, for all its failings at passing this century’s sonic quality test; its audio imperfections are so engrained in the listening experience that they have become part of that experience. When they are cleaned-up and ironed out by the digital transformation, something just seems to be missing. Of course, it depends what one happens to be listening to; I certainly couldn’t imagine enjoying Radio 3’s musical content in quite the same way on MW, for instance; but when it comes to the spoken word, especially one spoken with such mellifluous elegance as the ear masseurs of old on TMS, Long Wave undoubtedly guided the brushes painting the pictures in the listener’s head.

One can understand why some still preferred to listen on Long Wave long after the takeover of the superior soundscapes of the digital medium that superseded it, even if the choice of devices with which listeners can now access their favourite radio shows has multiplied way beyond the archaic trannie, and the bewildering amount of additional stations these new devices offer does make it hard to resist upgrading one’s audio equipment. The current issue of the Radio Times helpfully informs readers that if the listener doesn’t have a digital radio, a TV set or a smart speaker though which to access digital radio, or a Smartphone, or desktop computer or tablet, the listener will no longer be able to tune in to the listed programmes ‘as the schedules are unified’; it also points out older car radios with LW will be similarly affected. I don’t doubt that the more, ah, mature audience liable to be listening in to these particular programmes has already invested in the necessary gear and may well have been taking advantage of the proliferation of digital stations for quite some time; but, as always with the BBC, it’s hard to come away from this news without feeling yet again that a decision has been taken from on-high with no consultation with the audience that stands to be most affected.

One could accurately cite the disgraceful discarding of BBC4 as the sole BBC TV station still upholding the best Reithian traditions as a more extreme example of the contempt in which the Beeb holds some of its subscribers, and the binning of Long Wave is merely one small step in that ongoing process we call progress. After all, to paraphrase the great Alan Partridge, we evolve, but we don’t revolve.

© The Editor

Website: https://www.johnnymonroe.co.uk/

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LOST IN TRANSLATION

In October 1961, John Lennon marked his 21st birthday by spending a few days in Paris with Paul McCartney; pouty Mademoiselles held a powerful hold on the post-war erotic imagination where the English were concerned, and John and Paul were immediately mesmerised by the city whose young female population only had to say a few words to be transformed into Brigitte Bardot. But they weren’t just there to chase native skirt; they also wanted to check out the Parisian music scene. After years of stubborn resistance, the French had finally let rock ‘n’ roll breach their musical Maginot Line in the early 60s, but they didn’t entirely surrender themselves to the genuine article, preferring to rebrand it to suit their own tastes. France’s answer to Elvis was Johnny Hallyday, though it would be more accurate to call him the French Cliff Richard or the equivalent of any of several Elvis imitators familiar to British record-buyers of that era. During their stay in Paris, Lennon and McCartney went to see Hallyday play at the Olympia and weren’t impressed, with a postcard from Lennon sent back to Liverpool referring to ‘crappy French Rock’. Perhaps it’s no coincidence this was the trip that saw John and Paul finally ditch their 50s quiffs and have their hair cut into a style they’d quickly trademark as their own.

Far more successful in terms of record sales than ‘crappy French Rock’ was the yé-yé scene, which – though usually written and conceived by middle-aged men – was sung by teenage girls for teenage girls; simple and basic adolescent pop, lyrically immersed in the same subject matter as that being sung about by the black female voices that dominated the pre-Beatle American airwaves at the time, yé-yé can be appreciated today if one is in possession of a rather robust kitsch sensibility. But it’s no real wonder very few of the records by yé-yé stars like Sylvie Vartan – many of which were French-language covers of US hits – charted outside of French-speaking countries as, compared to the Real McCoy, they came across as pale imitations. Only Gallic chanteuses like Francoise Hardy had any kind of success in the UK, as Hardy embodied a Continental ‘cool’ that appealed to a very British idea of the sexy and sophisticated, vaguely bohemian Frenchwoman. Similarly, whilst Italian cultural exports like pizzas, scooters and suits were enthusiastically embraced by the emerging Mod scene, Italy also lagged way behind the UK and US when it came to pop music. The international language of contemporary pop was English; it rarely sounded right or remotely convincing sung in a European lingo.

The only exposure most British audiences had to any kind of ‘foreign’ pop music was during the annual Eurovision Song Contest, and that quickly became something of a joke, with few of its entries ever taken seriously. And yet, amidst the admittedly awful novelty numbers, there were a small handful of memorable tunes that appeared in the Eurovision line-up during this period, one of which blew the overblown ballads off the stage in 1965. The victor that year was young French yé-yé siren, France Gall; although representing Luxembourg, Gall’s winning song, ‘Poupée de cire, poupée de son’, was penned by Serge Gainsbourg and gallops along with the same kind of equestrian rhythm as Scott Walker’s cover of Belgian chanson singer Jacques Brel’s ‘Jackie’. Gainsbourg wrote several French hits for Gall thereafter, but Gainsbourg being Gainsbourg, he mischievously played upon Gall’s girl-next-door innocence when writing her 1966 smash, ‘Les sucettes’, a track which is supposed to be about a girl who loves lollipops, though a closer study of its lyrical double entendres reveals the girl in question prefers something else melting in her mouth.

Western Europe, like the rest of the world, was not immune to the cultural revolution of the 60s, though the charts of the European nations during this period often come across as a curious parallel universe to the standard 60s narrative. Although the usual suspects had a prevailing influence over the young, the respective music industries of the Common Market countries – particularly France – also continued to promote home-grown talent, with the end result being a string of successful singers whose success was largely limited to their own nations (and their numerous linguistic satellites), singers whose careers coexisted with names the rest of us would instantly recognise. Indeed, there are several artists from this era whose enduring popularity in their country of origin has failed to earn them recognition beyond there. Hands up, how many of you have heard of France’s Michèle Torr, Sweden’s Tommy Körberg, Norway’s Kirsti Sparboe, Austria’s Marianne Mendt, Germany’s Katja Ebstein, or Spain’s Karina? Then there’s another Norwegian, Hanne Krogh, who is one of Norway’s best-selling singers of all-time, yet probably couldn’t get arrested outside of Scandinavia. Ring any bells? Well, all received isolated exposure here via their participation in the Eurovision in the late 60s/early 70s, though all had careers in their native lands which survived the spotlight that shone on them for a mere three minutes as far as the English-speaking world was concerned.

The Eurovision Song Contest at this time could sometimes produce songs – rather than stars – with a tad more international longevity. In 1967, the year our very own Sandie Shaw swept the board, the Luxembourg entry was a beautiful song called ‘L’amour est bleu’, sung by a photogenic young Greek called Vicky Leandros. Although remarkably only managing fourth place, it was swiftly covered as an easy-listening instrumental by French orchestra leader Paul Mauriat and became a huge hit in countries immune to the Eurovision, famously earning Mauriat the distinction of being the first French act to top the Billboard Hot 100 in the States; shortly afterwards, it was again an instrumental hit – this time by noted rock axe-man Jeff Beck. Vicky Leandros herself may have lost out with ‘L’amour est bleu’, but she returned to the Eurovision in 1972 and won it with ‘Après toi’; translated into English as ‘Come What May’, one of the Contest’s finest dramatic ballads was only kept off the UK No.1 spot by The Royal Scots Dragoon Guards Band – yes, really. Whilst The Beatles may have re-recorded a couple of their early hits in German and David Bowie did likewise with ‘Heroes’ in 1977, few British or American acts have ever followed suit, whereas the language barrier has forced non-English-speaking singers into routinely dropping their mother tongues in the hope of scoring a hit in the profitable market of the Anglosphere. That the two Eurovision songs performed by Vicky Leandros succeeded outside of the Francophone world as an instrumental and an English language version respectively speaks volumes.

Mind you, the Eurovision itself didn’t make it easy for any participating singers harbouring hopes of international success until a notable rule change in 1973 that freed up the acts to sing in English if they preferred to, something that the following year’s winners – a certain foursome from Sweden – benefitted hugely from as they embarked on an unprecedented career for a Eurovision victor, one it would be hard to imagine them enjoying if singing solely in Swedish. That said, I have to admit some of the Eurovision entries from the decade leading up to Abba’s landmark win in 1974 do possess a quaint, cynical-free charm and an upbeat, optimistic innocence impossible to recapture today, when the majority of the participants sing songs in English that sound like every other homogenised pop record rolling off the British and American production line. Those vintage tracks sung in French, German, Norwegian and all the other notable European languages can take me back to childhood turnings of the radio dial, when distant Continental stations playing such sounds could be detected popping in and out of the aural shortwave shower. They still seem to resonate with the magical aura of far-off lands that don’t feel so far-off anymore.

© The Editor

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UNFOLLOW THE SCIENCE

Despite the relentless flogging of an undeniably dead horse by the BBC in the vain hope it would attract the attention of those who had rightly given up on it a long time ago, the 60th anniversary of ‘Doctor Who’ last November was the mother of all damp squibs where the general TV audience was concerned. With the latest right-on reboot drawing in record low viewing figures, it was telling that the only birthday gift worth a jot was the appearance on the iPlayer of the surviving back catalogue; all bar the very first story – 1963’s ‘An Unearthly Child’, absent due to unresolved rights issues – can now be viewed on the Beeb’s online outlet, but as I myself grew-up during the Jon Pertwee and Tom Baker eras (ones I’ve relived multiple times since then via VHS and DVD releases) I found it more interesting to take the Tardis back to the very beginning. And what a refreshing contrast it is with the unwatchable charlatan of a series that has misappropriated the brand name today.

Returning producer, the insufferably smug Russell T Davies, has decided to use the carcass of the series as a propaganda pulpit from which to preach the most tediously predictable and patronising ‘message’, ticking every box and not missing a moment to lecture the viewer; what used to be one of the few genuinely adventurous shows aimed at a family audience has now narrowed its focus to become ‘Queer as Folk in Space’, perhaps the most blatant branch of the BBC’s ideological agenda. The his/her/they/them non-binary narcissists that have added the series to their litany of causes may be momentarily cheering it on before they discard it in favour of another, but for the wider audience who kept the memory of the series alive during its lengthy absence from screens, there is no longer any room at the inn. And criticism of this ‘stunning and brave’ direction is naturally greeted by a hail of phobes and isms to neatly categorise the bigotry of the critic. Of course, what has happened to ‘Doctor Who’ is merely a sample of what has happened to all the long-running sci-fi/fantasy franchises in recent years: heavy-handed Identitarian preaching at the expense of exciting and creative storytelling, and the criminal rewriting of inconvenient history.

In the case of ‘Doctor Who’, an irreparable ‘ret-con’ (that’s short for ‘retroactive continuity’) has seen the long-established narrative of William Hartnell as the original Doctor ripped-up; no, we are now told the Doctor began his/her life as a black baby girl (of course) and went through the entire rainbow alphabet prior to 1963. This follows a familiar pattern whereby those of a certain mindset find the past so painfully problematic that they have to re-imagine it to suit their specific contemporary mores, whether that be white historical figures being recast as Actors of Colour or making said characters female or gay – or all three, preferably. ‘Doctor Who’ laid the foundations for this with a shameful character assassination a few years back when David Bradley was cast for a one-off episode as William Hartnell’s Doctor, and a heroic, charming and amusingly crotchety individual was rebranded as a racist, sexist bigot who repeatedly had to be lectured on how inappropriate he was; this disgraceful and ungrateful hatchet-job was not only an unwarranted slur on those who had made the programme what it was in the early years – actors, writers, producers – but it also gave an entirely false impression of those years. And revisiting those years is worth it, if only to discern the fiction being presented as fact to clueless viewers today.

The Woke approach to the past is always to ‘deconstruct’ – that is, to besmirch and blacken its reputation in order that the upgraded version can be presented as a superior and morally-unimpeachable alternative. But this remaking and remodelling – one that capitalises on the idle ignorance of its target audience – immediately falls flat on its arse when the demonised past is held up next to the present and the suppressed truth is revealed. Laden with lazy CGI and a facsimile cinematic sheen, the current version of the programme couldn’t be visually further away from the monochrome, studio-based series of the 60s, produced on a shoestring budget and often housed within the cramped environs of Lime Grove. But what TV programme of that era wasn’t hampered by such limitations? As when the Hays Code inspired Hollywood’s most ingeniously creative directors to inventively work their way around its restrictions, such a challenge as that presented to the original production team behind ‘Doctor Who’ merely served to galvanise them into working wonders with what little they had. The original model of the show saw the Doctor and his companions visit the past in one story – the so-called ‘historical’ adventures – and visit an alien planet in the next. The latter placed greater demands on cast and crew, and whilst it’s true they didn’t always get it right, when they did the end results could be amongst the most delightfully surreal moments of television ever delivered to a prime-time mainstream audience.

Perhaps the pinnacle of this glorious explosion of imagination was the six-part 1965 story, ‘The Web Planet’. With excursions to Ancient Rome and the Medieval Crusades respectively on either side of it, this diversion into brilliantly bizarre science-fantasy has long had a bad reputation as an exercise in ambition exceeding execution, so it was one I approached on the iPlayer with low expectations; and I was pleased to have my expectations completely blown away. ‘The Web Planet’ is quite unlike any other ‘Doctor Who’ I’ve ever encountered. The story sees the Tardis dragged down to the arid surface of the planet Vortis, in which insects are the dominant species, albeit in humanoid form. The intelligent indigenous natives are the butterfly-like Menoptra, forced into exile and determined to liberate Vortis from the grip of the ant-like Zarbi, storm-troopers of a powerful parasite called the Animus, which is draining all life from the planet. This premise threw down quite a gauntlet for costume and set designers alike, but they admirably refused to shirk the challenge and went for it.

The Zarbi only ever emit an electronic chirrup, never actually speaking, whereas the Menoptra speak with a staccato flourish, complemented by their curious body movements – something that was developed by a mime artist who worked with the actors hidden behind the elaborate costumes. The Menoptra also have wings, which means they can fly; a technique not dissimilar to the way in which the pantomime incarnation of Peter Pan swoops onto the stage was used to achieve this effect; although understandably used sparingly, the sight of them taking off and then landing is undeniably impressive, even now. There’s a sequence where they launch themselves into battle against the Zarbi and, with the additional presence of the Zarbi’s living weapons – the beetle-like venom guns – scurrying across the floor, the whole beautifully-choreographed scene plays out like an otherworldly ballet; the unique atmosphere of the planet Vortis, as represented by a dreamy filter of Vaseline on the camera, enhances the illusion that the viewer is genuinely witnessing something taking place a long way from Earth; the ethereal Musique Concrète soundtrack serves a similar purpose.

The late addition of the even stranger subterranean species sharing the planet – the Optera – adds another eccentric layer to the adventure, as they bounce along like children taking part in the sack race on a school sports day. The spidery lair housing the eerie Animus is a triumph of set design and, were it in colour, one wouldn’t hesitate to call it Psychedelic. Indeed, there is a strong hallucinatory quality to ‘The Web Planet’ that transcends the budgetary restraints and succeeds in transporting the viewer to what feels like a genuinely alien environment. Even when it doesn’t quite work as intended, it never sours one’s enjoyment; there are so many out-there sights and sounds to elevate the adventure way beyond its false reputation that those who prefer to be spoon-fed CGI-drenched sermons masquerading as entertainment are welcome to the wretched excuse for the show in 2024. They will never be able to appreciate the abundance of imagination and ingenuity inherent in a talented team of creative individuals whose tireless efforts created something that those bogged down by dogma have made a living off the back of over the past half-decade.

© The Editor

Website: https://www.johnnymonroe.co.uk/

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SOUL MAN

Who knew? Apparently, the disturbingly talent-free zone that is Miley Cyrus was No.1 for 10 whole weeks last year. However, as a characteristically-stimulating conversation over on Rick Beato’s YT channel once pointed out, we live in an era of ‘million-sellers’ that the vast majority of the public have never even heard. Quite a contrast with the days when Bryan Adams could be lodged at the top of the charts for what felt like six months, with the world and his wife able to whistle the tune whether they liked it or not; but the charts provided the soundtrack for everyone’s lives back then, whereas these days a weekly list of the best-selling downloads is only of interest to the music industry. The atomisation of listening habits has made music the property of the isolated individual rather than the masses. One could say the same for television in the age of streaming and specialist channels only accessible via subscription, with dozens of so-called ‘must-see’ shows binge-watched by different people at different times, consigning water-cooler discussions on the programmes in question to history, as nobody is viewing the same thing on the same day anymore. The rationing of channels that once guaranteed every popular TV show shitloads of viewers and ensured them a place on the front page of people’s lives has meant such shows remain indelibly imprinted on the collective memory; and one such show was ‘Starsky and Hutch’.

Unlike the latest Netflix mini-series hyped-up in the ‘culture’ columns of broadsheets whilst viewed by a select few, a TV programme such as ‘Starsky and Hutch’ seemed to be watched by everybody. If your childhood took place in the 1970s, it was one of those shows that was part of the pop cultural wallpaper; the fact it was a key ingredient in a legendary line-up on Saturday nights that also included the likes of ‘Doctor Who’, ‘The Generation Game’, ‘Match of the Day’ and ‘Parkinson’ meant the hour of its transmission wasn’t out of bounds for the younger viewer; there was no school in the morning on a Saturday, but when school came around the following Monday, the contents of the most recent episode provoked many a playground debate, not to mention a spontaneous recreation of the screeching tyres and shoot-outs that no episode of ‘Starsky and Hutch’ would be complete without.

In Britain, the 70s was a television decade relying just as much on US imports as home-grown produce, and the cop show superseded the western as the most successful genre beamed in from across the pond. From ‘Kojak’ and ‘Cannon’ to ‘Columbo’ and ‘Hawaii 5-0’, the cop show was both unavoidable and irresistible, providing 50 minutes of pleasingly formulaic entertainment that never failed to satisfy because the good guys always got the bad guys in the end. ‘Starsky and Hutch’, which premiered on US TV with a pilot in 1975, appeared to be following a well-established path when it aired for the first time in the UK shortly afterwards. But there was something about the buddy-buddy blend of two good-looking young men ‘walking the tightrope of crime’ (as the Radio Times used to strangely summarise the series) that captured the imagination of children and teens in particular, and the show became pretty much an overnight success. Health-food fitness fanatic Ken Hutchinson (played by David Soul) and junk-food junkie Dave Starsky (played by Paul Michael Glaser) were a classic chalk-and-cheese double act who zoomed around the mean streets of LA in leather jackets and jeans, usually at the wheel of a red Ford Torino with a distinctive white stripe, a vehicle that briefly inspired the amusing re-spray of numerous less-glamorous British motors.

The paraphernalia aimed at kids that accompanied many popular TV shows in the 70s – comic strips, annuals, poster magazines, toys – was just one by-product of the success of ‘Starsky and Hutch’; another was the chart career of David Soul, who scored two No.1 hits in 1977 at the peak of the programme’s popularity. An odd interregnum between the teenybop idols of the early 70s and the video-age pop stars of the early 80s saw Soul’s MOR ditties offer an easy-listening alternative to the prevailing Punk trends of the period, and served to paper over the cracks in the punishing shooting schedule of US TV shows that demanded 26 episodes per season. Paul Michael Glaser repeatedly expressed his desire to escape the treadmill, but both he and Soul were appeased by the opportunity to direct several later episodes – and it’s no coincidence that these episodes ended up being amongst the best of the whole series. The amount of episodes produced per year meant some were invariably better than others; whenever ‘Starsky and Hutch’ veered away from the grittier crime stories that typified its early years (and the ones with Glaser at the directorial helm), it could lapse into some toe-curlingly corny areas. You know the kind of thing I mean – Starsky and Hutch go undercover as camp hairdressers on a cruise ship, or something along those lines. When compared to the content of later cop shows such as ‘Hill Street Blues’, such episodes look incredibly lame.

Having said that, humour was crucial to the series’ appeal; the character of Huggy Bear, the flamboyant, jive-talking dude the guys would go to for ‘the word on the street’, often provided comic relief, and Starsky and Hutch’s affable bear of a boss, Captain Dobie, would routinely figure as a punch-line when it came to his considerable bulk. That both supporting characters were played by black actors – Antonio Fargas and Bernie Hamilton respectively – felt progressive for the time; and some of the storylines – such as one in which a veteran, happily-married colleague of Starsky and Hutch is found dead in the apartment of a male prostitute – are surprisingly ‘liberal’ for 70s TV. But after four seasons of the series, both actors – who shared an appealing on-screen camaraderie that kept the show riding high in the ratings – decided enough was enough and went their separate ways, only reuniting in their familiar guises one last time for a cameo in an otherwise undistinguished, tongue-in-cheek movie version of ‘Starsky and Hutch’ that appeared at the height of nostalgia for the 70s in the early 2000s.

Paul Michael Glaser, despite suffering personal tragedy when both his wife and young daughter were infected with HIV during a blood transfusion and died of the virus, became a successful movie director; David Soul, meanwhile, kept acting; but he’d been active for a long time before finding fame. An early and undeniably bizarre stint as an anonymous masked singer on US variety shows was followed by small acting parts in the likes of ‘Star Trek’ and ‘The Streets of San Francisco’, eventually leading to a memorable role as a crooked cop in the second ‘Dirty Harry’ movie, ‘Magnum Force’ in 1973. Immediately after ‘Starsky and Hutch’, he starred alongside James Mason in a TV mini-series of Stephen King’s ‘Salem’s Lot’; but revelations of drunken wife-beating somewhat damaged his public profile and resulted in anger management therapy and rehab. Married five times, his final marriage led to Soul relocating to the UK and eventually becoming a British citizen. He returned to acting with a star turn as Jerry Springer in the controversial musical inspired by the notorious TV show, and found work in less-contentious British mainstays such as ‘Holby City’ and ‘Poirot’.

A heavy smoker for most of his adult life, David Soul may have had a damaged lung removed a few years back, but he still made it all the way to 80 before becoming 2024’s first notable casualty. He wasn’t the greatest actor who ever trod the boards, nor was he the greatest singer ever to score a couple of chart-toppers. But he earned the enduring affection of an entire generation through starring in a TV show that continues to radiate a unique warmth in the memory of those whose formative Saturday nights were shaped by it.

© The Editor

Website: https://www.johnnymonroe.co.uk/

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THE GREAT BRITISH ECCENTRIC

The first time one sees a famous face in the flesh as a child tends to stick in the memory; those tiny figures crammed into the cathode ray tube were difficult to imagine outside of that context, to visualise as full-size, bona-fide people just like everyone else, so it’s no wonder encountering them beyond the box was borderline surreal. At a young age I remember seeing Richard Whiteley filling up his car at a petrol station on Kirkstall Road, just across from the Yorkshire Television studios; so he was definitely the first, even though he was only a household name in the YTV region at the time, still being a decade away from network celebrity via a certain afternoon institution. The next famous face I saw was in 1976, when I was spending a few days at my grandparents’ home during the school summer holidays; they lived in Huddersfield, and journeying into the town centre with my grandma was a regular outing as we shopped for something that would keep me occupied, usually a book or a comic. As anyone of a certain age will remember from those rationed television days, BBC1 would schedule a holiday mix of repeats for younger viewers on weekday mornings, usually containing one of the four foreign serials – ‘Robinson Crusoe’, ‘The Flashing Blade’, ‘Belle et Sébastien’, and ‘The White Horses’; the year in question also saw the line-up include the rerunning of early 70s editions of ‘Vision On’, the brilliantly imaginative series theoretically produced for the deaf, but enjoyed by all children who saw it.

One of the stellar characters of the ‘Vision On’ team – alongside mime act bendy Ben Benison, artist Tony Hart, Pat Keysell (with her sign language), and future Time Lord Sylvester McCoy – was a uniquely eccentric inventor of amusingly oddball objects and joyfully pointless machines, ‘Professor’ Wilf Lunn. This wild-haired, hirsute ginger magician with Lennon-esque spectacles and the air of a less manic Vivian Stanshall was one of the most distinctive figures on children’s television at the time, the kind who could only have gained a foot in the door during the early 1970s. After viewing one of his performances from that period on a (no doubt) warm morning in 1976, I set off for the bus with my grandma and we headed for Huddersfield town centre. Walking alongside her down one of the numerous shopping thoroughfares, I spotted a sore thumb sticking out of the multitudes, an unmistakable, bespectacled and red-headed, slightly portly figure striding up the street in a denim waistcoat plastered in badges; it felt as though he had literally stepped out of the television set, for there he was – Wilfred Makepeace Lunn. It couldn’t have been anybody else.

I pulled at my grandma’s arm and told her it was ‘that man off the telly’ and I can’t recall her response, though it was probably one of those ‘Oh, yes, that’s nice’ lines that adults come out with for children when their minds are elsewhere; but she wouldn’t have recognised him, anyway. Prof Lunn wasn’t part of her generation’s televisual wallpaper. I had no one to confirm I was actually seeing who I was convinced I was seeing as he walked past, and the brief incident slowly faded into the realms of childhood memory, one of those where it almost ends up midway between dream and reality because it was hard to believe a TV star would be pounding the streets of a provincial town. Well, several decades later, I was working my way through YouTube channels during the early novelty years of stumbling across long-lost archive footage, and I discovered Wilf Lunn had his own channel. After visiting it once or twice, I decided to tell the great man himself that I thought I’d seen him in Huddersfield as a child, and posted a comment with words to that effect. Within a few hours, I received a reply; he said it probably was him, as he was living in the area at the time. So, finally, it was confirmed. I hadn’t dreamt it! I’d seen Wilf Lunn doing his shopping.

Rob Halford, the screeching singer with Metal band Judas Priest, and a man known for his leather-and-stud stage outfits, once observed in his trademark West Midlands lilt that members of the public who recognise him offstage often expect him to be dressed in his familiar gear; but, as he said, he’s not going to be wearing it when he’s buying his groceries in Morrison’s. The fact Wilf Lunn looked the same in the flesh as on TV was a bonus, like seeing Jon Pertwee in his frills and velvet jacket even when not battling the Daleks; as viewers, and especially as children, we want our heroes to always be the way they look when encased in the perimeters of the gogglebox. Granted, Wilf Lunn wasn’t wearing a hat with a plastic pigeon perched on top of it – as he occasionally did on television; but he was still Wilf Lunn. And, looking back, what a gloriously original and entertaining character he was. I say was because I’ve only just heard his name has recently been added to the Grim Reaper’s lengthy list of scalps in 2023, passing away a little more than a week ago at the age of 81.

Lunn was born in 1942 in the village of Rastrick – just outside of Huddersfield and once renowned for its part-share in a brass brand with neighbouring town Brighouse; perhaps the most famous son of the vicinity was movie star James Mason, whose parents lived nearby. It was through them that the young Wilf met the actor, who introduced him to a theatrical agent. Lunn auditioned for ‘Vision On’ (which, like that other children’s mainstay of the era, ‘Animal Magic’, was based at BBC Bristol), but didn’t initially get the gig. Beginning in 1964, ‘Vision On’ had broken new ground for kids TV at a time when the medium was still struggling to escape from its somewhat starched 50s suit; ‘Vision On’ was very much in tune with the 60s zeitgeist more than any other children’s programme of the period, and it seemed a natural home for Wilf Lunn. He would get there eventually, but his first big TV break came on BBC2’s ‘Late Night Line-Up’, which had given exposure to several notable fellow eccentrics such as the deadpan Scottish poet and musician Ivor Cutler; indeed, Cutler’s appearance on the programme in 1967 was caught by Paul McCartney, who invited him to appear in ‘Magical Mystery Tour’. With nothing else occupying television space in the twilight hours, ‘Late Night Line-Up’ was routinely watched by night-owls like rock stars returning home from recording sessions, so it certainly helped give Lunn’s career a leg-up.

He didn’t appear in any Beatles movie, but he was recalled to Bristol and arrived just in time for television’s transition into Technicolor, with few other BBC shows bar ‘Top of the Pops’ more suited to the move away from monochrome than ‘Vision On’. During his long stint on the programme, Wilf Lunn spent most of each edition hammering away at some madcap creation that would then be unveiled before the rest of the team; he had clearly found his niche, and it’s hard to imagine where else could have been so receptive to it. When ‘Vision On’ came to an end the very year I saw the Professor in person, Lunn didn’t cross over to the spinoff ‘Take Hart’, but resurfaced three years later in another highly original children’s series created by ‘Vision On’ producer Clive Doig, ‘Jigsaw’. Lunn’s bonkers and intentionally impractical inventions continued to be the main draw, and he exhibited them on everything from ‘Nationwide’ and ‘Game for a Laugh’ to…er…’Rolf on Saturday, OK!’ and ‘Jim’ll Fix It’.

Wilf Lunn continued to pop up on television whenever that endangered species, the Great British Eccentric, fell under the spotlight; and to be honest, it was difficult to think of a more fitting example, particularly as society accelerated its depressing slide into conformity and uniformity. Wilf Lunn remained defiantly Wilf Lunn, regardless of how much the nation turned away from his brand of admirable individuality; and even if it has become the mother of all clichés to declare we don’t make ‘em like that anymore, the sad truth is we really don’t.

© The Editor

Website: https://www.johnnymonroe.co.uk/

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TO BE DISCONTINUED

It all began with lime flavour Angel Delight; well, it did for me, anyway. As a child, lime was always my favourite option when it came to the famous mousse dessert manufactured by Bird’s, the powdered sweet in a packet that constituted exotic ‘afters’ for households in which the tin was king. At some point in the late 1970s, however, lime mysteriously vanished from the supermarket shelf, leaving chocolate, banana, strawberry or the somewhat sickly butterscotch as the only alternative to the late, lamented favourite that was never reintroduced. Since then, it often seems that whenever I find a foodstuff I’m rather partial to, it’s only a matter of time before it goes the way of lime Angel Delight. But it’s always worse if the item in question was one that stimulated your taste buds as a child; childhood is crammed with more first-time experiences than any other period one lives through, loaded with sensations leaving impressions that remain with you for the rest of your life, including what you eat. Take Puffa Puffa Rice, another ever-present from the same era, this time in the Kellogg’s catalogue. It stood as a companion piece to what were then known as Coco Krispies (AKA Coco Pops), with Sooty gracing the box of the former and Sweep the latter. Of the two, I preferred Sooty’s cereal, and yes, it is still a taste I can summon up with ease – even if its own disappearance in the early 80s means it hasn’t melted in my mouth for more than 40 years.

It’s silly and it’s illogical, I know; but people get attached to shit like this. Maybe when a line is discontinued decades later rather than at the height of its personal popularity, the nostalgia factor then comes into play, the childhood connection that the severing of provokes a minor midlife crisis and a conviction that all certainties are slipping away. We see it in other facets of life when change occurs, so why not food too? Of late, there appear to have been a few such moments, if social media reactions to freshly-discontinued lines are anything to go by. Nestlé, the Swiss confectioner that swallowed-up Rowntree Mackintosh in 1987 recently announced it was axing two of the old firm’s long-running institutions, Caramac and Animal Bar. I remember both from childhood – though Caramac competed with the Pink Panther chocolate bar as the sweet you could eat between meals without ruining your appetite whilst simultaneously inducing sickness worthy of a long car journey. Caramac was a chocolate bar with all the best bits taken out; it was a last-option purchase, the only choice available when pocket money had been whittled away down to a sixpence.

I’m just bringing personal bias to the table here, mind; a lot of people – though evidently not enough to secure the bar’s future – became rather irate on Twitter at the news of Caramac’s demise, with many scrambling to stock-up on what’s left. I did this myself when the brand of shaving foam I’d used for years was replaced by a ‘new improved’ (code for ‘not as good’) version a couple of years ago, but I inevitably ran out of supplies in the end and had to find another brand instead; for the few Caramac hoarders out there, it won’t be so easy. There’s only one Caramac. I learnt my lesson with the shaving foam, which is why the predictable news that Heinz will be discontinuing their quite delicious cream of tomato and basil soup hasn’t resulted in me buying up every tin of it I can locate; it’s a futile exercise, however much I rate this variation on the formula. I guess I knew it was doomed to go the way of lime Angel Delight once again. Anyway, to return to the death row of sweets Nestlé inherited from the much-missed Rowntree, the company clearly isn’t content with dispatching merely Caramac and Animal Bar to that great confectioner’s shop in the sky; Nestlé has also apparently added Polo Fruits and Polo Gummies to the hit list. To be honest, I only remember the former and wasn’t even aware they still existed; not for much longer, it would seem.

Nestlé is not alone in the current wave of discontinuation, though. Celebrated crisp company Walkers has been at it as well, but I have to admit some of the flavours it has decided to do away with are not ones familiar to me. Salt and Vinegar Quavers, FFS? Quavers were always cheesy-based, recognising the supremacy of cheese ‘n’ onion over salt ‘n’ vinegar in the great crisp contest; the thought that Quavers might have veered in the direction of the enemy is something that utterly warrants this particular deviation from the formula being abandoned IMHO (as some might say). Walkers, like Nestlé, is another company that has inherited many lines belonging to former rivals (in this case, Smiths), including such mainstays as Monster Munch and Wotsits; as the number of producers of the nation’s favourite snacks narrows due to corporate cannibalism, perhaps it’s inevitable that certain titles vanish, despite the protests of those for whom these defiantly unhealthy nibbles have remained essential ingredients in the collective coronary lunch-box.

Apparently, Worcester sauce flavour Walkers has now been added to the list of vanishing crisps, though again – speaking personally – they weren’t a particular favourite; nevertheless, I suppose for some out there they were the equivalent of lime Angel Delight, and their disappearance will be responsible for many a future pondering on how the decline and fall of Western civilization got underway. Walkers have also discontinued Max Strong Hotsauce Blaze, a flavour which sounds utterly horrific and is one I’ve never encountered myself. I recall around the mid-2010s Walkers launched a short-lived experimental run of strange novelty flavours that included salad cream; this was one I actually tried and found remarkably close to the source material; I was impressed, though they clearly didn’t catch on, as I don’t remember seeing them since. A shame, as I quite liked them. Anyway, another personally untried line – that of ‘Max Wasabi Peanuts’ – has also been curtailed, though I have to admit ‘Max Wasabi’ does sound a bit like an African musician that the likes of Andy Kershaw would once have eulogised.

Mind you, bearing in mind the time of year, it’s interesting that Cadbury – a well-established Nestlé competitor – is mysteriously encountering what a spokesperson describes as ‘supply chain challenges’ when it comes to the Orange Creme flavour from that essential festive item, the box of Roses. Having just exposed its ruthlessness by bringing the axe down on its peanut caramel crisp chocolate bar, Cadbury’s excuse for this might come across as a tad unconvincing. ‘This year,’ the spokesperson said, ‘a small percentage of Cadbury Roses products will not contain any Orange Cremes…but don’t worry; you’ll still be able to enjoy the same amount of chocolate as usual, as we’ve replaced them with our much-loved Strawberry Cremes.’ I’m sure I remember recently reading tins of Quality Street – manufactured by Nestlé, as their huge factory beside Halifax railway station declares extremely loudly and proudly – would be low on the divisive green triangle this Christmas too. Is there no end to this madness, a nation asks itself.

Memory is littered with the carcasses of chocolate bars, crisps and sweets that fell by the wayside in the march of progress – which is why the names of Spangles, Rancheros, Bones, Banjo, Drifter, Toffo and numerous others spark a characteristically Proustian reaction in those for whom they formed formative eating habits. At the end of the day, however, whatever magical spell they cast on the nostalgic imagination, they’re not necessarily made to make your mouth water, but to make money for the companies that manufacture them; and if sales take a fatal dip, they won’t hesitate to axe a beloved brand, no matter how much lingering affection the public has for it. We might like to think of sweet and snack manufacturers being run by benevolent Willy Wonka-like eccentrics, but the truth is they’re just as clinically corporate as the rest of big business. After all, a man’s gotta chew what a man’s gotta chew.

© The Editor

Website: https://www.johnnymonroe.co.uk/

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UNHAPPY VALLEY

Funny how a strange, vintage TV series rooted in supposedly far-fetched supernatural legends of Celtic mythology seems less bonkers than most ‘straight’ stories that clog-up online news outlets today; but that’s what it feels like coming back to ‘The Owl Service’, the 1969 eight-parter produced by Granada. I first watched it when I purchased the DVD around five years ago; a characteristically thorough release by the late, lamented Network, the DVD was a purchase inspired by seeing snippets of the series on some documentary about children’s television a while before. Too young to have seen it at the time it originally aired, and never having caught the two repeat runs in 1978 and 1987 respectively, I was intrigued by the clips from what looked like another of those creepy and irredeemably disturbing dramas that used to be aimed at a young audience accustomed to having the shit scared out of them by public information films. Following on from the psychedelic Swinging London weirdness of ‘The Tyrant King’ the year before, and anticipating similarly out-there series to come, like ‘The Changes’ and ‘Children of the Stones’, ‘The Owl Service’ emanates from an era when kids’ TV didn’t just cater for the infants but also recognised pre-and post-pubescent viewers required something to make them think as well as serving to entertain them.

‘The Owl Service’ was based on a recent book by Alan Garner, who adapted the novel for television himself; shot entirely on location and on colour film, the series was quite groundbreaking in its day, a TV era when most shows reserved filming for occasional exterior scenes, preferring studio interiors shot on videotape to suffice for 95% of screen time. The decision to shoot entirely on film enhanced the uniquely atmospheric aura the story generated, with the rural Welsh locations breathtaking and eerie in equal measure. The series revolved around a trio of young leads, who the script stated to be roundabout seventeen. The photogenic Gillian Hills – who had left little to the imagination beside Jane Birkin as one of the two wannabe models seduced by David Hemmings’ photographer in ‘Blow Up’ – played Alison, the fey, disturbed girl whose mother remarries and provides her with an instant stepbrother as well as a stepfather. Her stepbrother is the somewhat repressed Roger (played by Francis Wallis), who spends a lot of time in a pair of ridiculously skimpy shorts, perhaps to complement Alison’s miniskirts. The third member of the trio is Gwyn (Michael Holden), son of the unhinged housekeeper hired to run the summer home the newlyweds and their adolescent offspring decamp to as the unseen mother convalesces.

As with many TV dramas of the period, the class system plays a prominent part in how the characters are distinguished from one another; Alison and Roger are unmistakably middle-class whilst Gwyn is clearly from the ‘lower orders’. Roger’s disdain for Gwyn seems to be born as much of his snobbish sense of superiority as it does his evident jealousy of the growing closeness he witnesses between the servant’s son and Alison. Increasingly playing the gooseberry whenever Gwyn joins them, Roger begins to spend more time alone, wandering round the locality with his camera and then barricading himself in his dark-room to develop the end results. When he photographs a stone monument with an intriguing hole in it, Roger receives the full myth surrounding it from the house’s handyman Huw (Raymond Llewellyn). Initially coming across as a bit of a village idiot yokel, Huw is gradually unveiled as a character with hidden depths; his absolute conviction in the truth of a fatal ménage à trois that forms part of an ancient local legend is matched by his belief that Roger, Alison and Gwyn are beginning to re-enact the tragic love story that, as it turns out, was re-enacted in his own doomed youth.

The odd title of the series derives from a dinner service Alison and Gwyn discover in the attic of the house when she sends him up there after being shaken by the repeated sound of scratching on the ceiling of her bedroom. Expecting to find rats, Gwyn instead stumbles upon said plates bearing an unusual design; Alison deciphers the design and makes paper models of what are revealed to be owls, becoming a little obsessed with the exercise. Alison’s mother – who, as mentioned, is never actually seen – disapproves of her daughter’s relationship with Gwyn, whilst Gwyn’s mother Nancy (Dorothy Edwards) expresses her own disapproval via neurotic outbursts. Mind you, she bears a grudge against the family occupying the house, believing it to be rightfully hers, as she was once romantically involved with a distant relative of Alison’s who was killed in a motorcycle accident before they could marry. The only seemingly sane and unaffected adult character is Roger’s father Clive, played by a veteran of many a British movie and TV series, Edwin Richfield, though he appears largely oblivious to events under his nose until they’re pointed out to him. But it is the three juvenile leads whose journey provides the real interest.

Both Alison and Roger are damaged individuals. Roger’s uptight aloofness is something he evidently wears as protective armour, having been emotionally traumatised by his parents’ divorce and his mother’s sullied reputation; he only ever lets his guard down when alone. Alison is more of a mystery, though it’s hinted that the death of her father could be held responsible for her occasionally odd behaviour. Gwyn is equally affected by not knowing who his absent father was, yet he refuses to let this define him; ambitious to escape the limitations of his background without quite knowing how, he admits to Alison he bought a batch of LPs teaching elocution because he hates his accent, yet doesn’t have a record player to listen to them on. It’s an engaging and sympathetic performance as Gwyn by Michael Holden – one that perfectly captures the hunger and yearning of youth to see beyond one’s backyard, and Alison appears to represent a beguiling alternative. However, when Gwyn asks her what she wants to do with her life, her reply is ‘Mummy wants me to go abroad’, a statement redolent in the lack of self-determination characteristic of the not-quite-grown-up, still bearing the child’s fear of upsetting parental plans. At one point, a frustrated Gwyn attempts to run away, but finds the mountainous landscape as much of an impediment to escape as the family secrets that Huw blurts out, sending him back to the house.

There are numerous moments in ‘The Owl Service’ that belie its premise as ‘something for children’; it’s certainly hard to imagine a series as multilayered, complex and darkly disorientating being served up as kiddie fodder today; at one point, Alison even becomes ‘possessed’ in a manner that recalls ‘The Exorcist’, albeit without the ill-advised employment of a crucifix. Setting a trend for the young adult series of the 1970s, when the pagan mysticism of the pre-Christian age routinely resurfaces and collides with the modern world, ‘The Owl Service’ retains its ability to surprise and occasionally shock. In one scene, Gwyn responds to yet another manic eruption from his mother by casually telling her to ‘drop dead’ before claiming he’d gladly study A-level profanity if it was an option at school. Sadly, less than a decade after playing Gwyn, Michael Holden was killed in an unprovoked attack outside a pub in 1977. Nevertheless, the series left its mark on many of the cast members and also on television itself, particularly during that brief golden age of intelligent and thought-provoking drama that followed it in a timeslot allegedly intended for the under-18s. No, we won’t see its like again on TV, but at least it’s still out there for anyone intrigued enough to track it down. It’s worth it.

© The Editor

Website: https://www.johnnymonroe.co.uk/

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A.I. AM THE WALRUS

‘Taxman’ and ‘Eleanor Rigby’, ‘Back in The USSR’ and ‘Dear Prudence’, ‘Come Together’ and ‘Something’, ‘Drive My Car’ and ‘Norwegian Wood’ – just four examples of first and second tracks on Beatles LPs, demonstrating the variety and lack of repetition that makes the best of their albums such a rich listening experience. Sequencing tracks in an order that showcased their versatility was something the band paid a great deal of attention to, rendering the DIY sequencing of the iPod age largely unnecessary where The Beatles are concerned; it’s hard to beat them at their own game. Moreover, they were able to specialise in this due to the dazzling panorama of eclectic musical styles available on LPs like ‘Revolver’ and the White Album; a determination to never make the same record twice is a hallmark of The Beatles that must come as an eye-opener to any novice only aware of the trio of facsimile Beatle releases from 1995 onwards, one who assumes The Beatles just produced plodders on the piano. Naturally, none of these three ‘reunion’ songs were ever intended as such in the first place, all being numbers composed by John Lennon over five years after the four had ceased to be a working unit. Bearing all the sonic limitations of primitive home demos, the said trio were incomplete, with on-the-spot lyrics used in the absence of the finished article. Chances are Lennon may have gone back to them and completed the job had he lived longer, and if he’d known what would one day happen to them he’d probably have tried harder.

By now, we’re all aware that what is being touted as ‘The Last Beatles Song’ is out there, retrieved from a dusty cassette at the Dakota Building and put through the latest technical mangle to emerge on the other side as a fully-formed Frankenstein’s Monster of a Beatles record, over half-a-century after the final occasion in which John, Paul, George and Ringo were all in the same room at the same time. The slick marketing machine of the band’s one-time Utopian enterprise Apple befits the corporate gatekeeper of the most valuable legacy in pop it has subsequently become, with no opportunity missed to ensure the product is promoted. As a song, ‘Now and Then’ would have perhaps nicely slotted in to an imaginary John Lennon solo LP from the late 70s, but I doubt it would have made the final cut of a genuine Beatles album, for which the three creative forces within the band reserved their finest compositions. However, for all the technological trickery of ‘Now and Then’, it’s refreshing – and quite poignant – to at least hear Paul McCartney’s voice hasn’t been ‘de-aged’ for the occasion; he sounds like what he now is, an old man; and, for me, the elegiac vibe the record strives for is enhanced by this fact.

In many ways, though, the song is secondary to the event; whenever the Stones release a new album, nobody expects anything on it to surpass ‘Satisfaction’ or ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ – merely the fact they’re still around to actually make a record is enough to justify the hype. Similarly, few people – especially those familiar with Lennon’s original demo – were anticipating another ‘A Day in the Life’ or ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ when it was announced that Paul and Ringo were polishing up a track they’d abandoned polishing up with George 30 years ago. I suspect some were simply curious as to whether or not today’s technology could improve upon what was possible with ‘Free as a Bird’ and ‘Real Love’ back in the 90s, and it has to be said that ‘Now and Then’ is an impressive technical achievement; utilising new audio techniques pioneered by director Peter Jackson when working on the ‘Get Back’ series, Lennon’s voice was isolated from the piano it was locked into on a one-track recording and now sounds as though he was in a vocal booth at Abbey Road, singing along crystal clear to a piano recorded on a separate track. It’s not quite ‘A.I.’, but it’s still a remarkable development.

It’s possible Apple made a mistake in not releasing Peter Jackson’s accompanying promo video for ‘Now and Then’ simultaneously with the song, as the emotional impact of visuals can often paper over the cracks of an ordinary tune – something MTV-era pop stars have known for the best part of 40 years. Mixing Paul and Ringo in shot with both their younger selves and their two departed bandmates is a clever touch, as is the ‘Benjamin Button’ tactic of the four de-ageing all the way back to infancy at the end. It emphasises the intended finality of the project, with the canny tagline of ‘Now and Then’ being ‘The Last Beatles Song’ vindicated to a point in the sense that we’ll never hear anything new with all four of them on again, even if John and George have been beamed-in from the past. Lest we forget, Ringo Starr is now 83 and Paul McCartney 81. Indeed, one might accurately point out that ‘Now and Then’ actually features more Beatles than either ‘The Ballad of John & Yoko’ (just John and Paul) or ‘Yesterday’ (just Paul). Knowing Apple’s cynical habit of fleecing fans with endless – and often pointless – reissues and remixes, however, I doubt ‘Now and Then’ will be the full stop on the most creatively fruitful career in pop history that Paul McCartney for one intends it to be.

Let’s not ignore the dull and astonishingly unimaginative sleeve design of the single either, which looks to me like some naff 80s graphics of a kind that would have graced the cover of a Level 42 CD back in the day. There are so many great photos of The Beatles that are begging to be used on record sleeves, and all their recent releases have spurned them in favour of bland designs that are a poor representation of a band whose album sleeves are amongst the most iconic works of pop art produced in the last century. Am I nitpicking, though? Well, I’m not alone. But maybe few are paying attention to that aspect of the release, for what Apple is more than aware of is just how powerful a factor nostalgia is in persuading people to fork out a fairly extortionate amount of money for a new Beatles single at a point in history when the past has so many advantages over the bleak insecurity of the future. That understandable desire to recapture the ‘first time’ effect of hearing a new recording by The Beatles is the same desperate emotion ruthlessly exploited by the likes of George Lucas with his repeated repackaging of the original ‘Star Wars’ film. Both he and Apple know that this feeling intensifies in middle age and particularly when the wider world appears to be heading in a considerably darker direction than the retrospective Technicolor daydream of the Swinging 60s.

Having The Beatles return to rescue us is akin to King Arthur hotfooting it back from Avalon when the nation is experiencing its darkest hour, and there’s no doubt there’s precious little else to feel optimistic about right now; therefore, the appeal of the country’s most beloved cultural ambassadors being resurrected by whatever means possible is bound to provoke the kind of OTT response we witnessed on numerous YT channels last week. Like a new Shakespeare play or a new Dickens novel, the prospect of a new Beatles record is irresistibly tantalising in these dreary days, a rare glimmer of sunlight to illuminate the West’s winter years. It’s something a sizeable proportion of the band’s fan-base has either never experienced or (if they’re old enough) hasn’t since 1995; the former has always regretted being born too late, and if it takes a John from the 70s, a George from the 90s, and a Paul and Ringo from the 2020s to simulate that effect, so be it. You can’t blame people for wanting it.

Where do we go from here, though? Will A.I. carry on the job when Father Time finally forces Paul and Ringo to hang up their bass and drumsticks for good? Ten or twenty years from now, artistic considerations may well be set aside in order to satisfy the incurable appetite for new, genetically-modified releases from a band who ceased to exist three decades before the Millennium. The fact one can see such a thing happening is both an indictment of contemporary pop culture’s inability to deliver the goods and an acknowledgement of just how enduring a legacy The Beatles left behind, one that people don’t want to let go of – even if ‘Now and Then’ has precious little to do with it.

© The Editor

Website: https://www.johnnymonroe.co.uk/

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